


Erhm... A character study of Frederick Chilton, I suppose?

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Gen, I truly am sorry, Mild Gore, Panic Attacks, Self-Hatred, This is no fun at all, Very short mention of vague suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 05:37:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2097639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like the title says, this is a character study of Doctor Frederick Chilton from the NBC series. I wrote this for three reasons; First of all, I wanted to explore the character before I truly start writing about him. Secondly, I wanted you, readers, to know what I base "my" Frederick off of. Thirdly, I wanted to make you all sad, to increase ice cream sales, so there you go</p>
            </blockquote>





	Erhm... A character study of Frederick Chilton, I suppose?

Frederick Chilton grew up in a rather large household. He had an older brother and a younger sister, a mother and up until he turned twenty, a father. His grandmother (on his mother's side) frequently visited, and the house was never empty. However, he had never been the center of affection from any of his family members. His tongue was too quick at coming up with snappy replies, which often got him in a lot of trouble with all of them. It had all escalated to the point where he, at the age of 18, had stormed out of the house. He hadn't returned since, and he hadn't kept contact. Not even when his father got buried, an event he discovered through the newspaper.

When he was younger and ambition hadn't yet taken a firm hold on every part of his mind, he had wanted a family. He'd wanted loads of children and a wife with whom he would spend the rest of his life. A special someone who would cook for him, with whom he could cuddle up in bed. Someone who unconditionally loved him. As he grew older, however, his fixation with becoming a powerful figure as, first a doctor, and then a psychiatrist, had led him to long hours poring over books and reports, writing article after article, most of which never got the recognition he thought they deserved. Truthfully, he could have found the time to go out with someone, had anyone been interested. But since his snarky, pompous attitude wasn't exactly attracting suitors, he spent the free hours working, allowing his mind to distract him from his horrible romantic, and evidently all together social, failings. 

The afternoon that Gideon had snuck out of his cell and had waited for him in Frederick's own car had, as was to be expected, altered his life forever. He hadn't noticed the passenger before it was too late; where Gideon had gotten the gun to threaten him and how he got out in the first place, Chilton wouldn't find out until much later, when he could review the security tapes. It turned out that once again Gideon had acted sick, and the guards had been too careless, being only two and stepping into the cell. The gun and uniform he had gotten from one of the corpses; the other corpse he had cut open with one of the keys, in a replica of what was to be done to Frederick himself later. So Abel had snuck out and forced him to drive to the observatory, where he had strapped him down and mockingly asked him to wait while he drove the car to some other location, so as not to give away their whereabouts. 

Chilton remembered the night, though not all of it clearly; he remembered watching his intestines quite vividly. He remembered Freddie Lounds face, her eyes scared but her hands surprisingly steady, as she kept him alive. He remembered Gideon's murmurs, his own pleading words as his usually sharp tongue failed him the one time where it might have been able to save him, being slapped in the face causing his face to get smeared with his own blood. When he woke up during the night, screaming, he could always feel that heavy liquid present on his cheek, and he had to run to the bathroom to make sure that there was nothing there. 

The rest was a blur of colors, the world swirling around him. Strangely, he remembered his father being there, green eyes finding his own with a look that spoke of disappointment and disapproval. " _Is this your life now, muchacho? Are you really this weak?"_ , they seemed to say in disdain.There was two reasons that that couldn't have happened; firstly, his father was dead. Secondly, as soon as the doctors had deemed him ready, an agent had arrived to question him. In return for his answers, he had demanded a full walkthrough of what had happened that afternoon and night. After telling Chilton three times in as much detail as he could, the agent had given up and just handed him the file that he wasn't supposed to have. Frederick had spent the next two weeks reading it again and again, hoping that by understanding, he might cope. By the end of those two weeks, he was able to recite the report by heart, every grammatical mistake included. His stay in the hospital had been what had made him realize how utterly and completely alone he was. Except for the agent and the doctors and nurses, nobody visited him. No one from his work, no one from the FBI with whom he had collaborated over a decent period of time by then. Nobody. His room was devoid of any 'get well' cards, not a single flower was taking up the space in the white vase next to his bed that seemed to mock him with its emptiness. He had cried a lot during the time there. He cried less now. 

It went without saying that his romantic situation didn't improve after his stay. He hadn't had sex in years, frankly, and though that bothered him, what he wanted wasn't a one-night stand, though he certainly wouldn't turn such a thing down, but more so a relationship, impossible as that was. His childhood dreams kept playing around his head, reminding him of all the things he had wanted, all the things he would never have, because you could say a lot about Frederick Chilton, but internally, he wasn't delusional. He knew very well that no woman would ever find him desirable in that regard. Or really, any regard. 

The worst thing about this whole incident wasn't the pain. It was the scar. For a man who had previously spent hours in front of the mirror, and not just making sure that not a single hair was out of place, practicing his facial expressions and musing over clothing choices, but also just looking at his naked body (a bit narcissistic, he knew) the shift in routine was significant. He still spent a long time on his hair and clothes, but he only looked at his scar when grooming of hair on his torso was necessary. At all other times, a shirt or a towel covered him. It wasn't just the fact that the scar reminded him how much he had failed in his treatment with Abel Gideon, which subsequently reminded him how many other treatments he had failed. It wasn't the memories of that night either; they haunted his dreams almost every night anyway. It was the fact that he felt ugly and like he no longer belonged in his own body. Why, he couldn't explain. Maybe it was the fact that Gideon had left a mark that he could never, ever get rid of. Maybe it was because he now felt broken and awkward, which wasn't a feeling he had ever experienced before. It felt unpleasant and sometimes forced him to break down into sobs, because he knew that he would never feel whole again. 

Maybe it was the regular panic attacks that he could never truly foresee, that restrained him more than any leather straps across his chest and thighs ever could. They could be triggered by any number of random things, and they occurred almost daily. His chest would start feeling tight and breathing would feel almost impossible, as his heart would race and sweat start soaking his clothes. The lightheadedness would soon after make itself present, and then pictures of his internal organs would start flashing by, quicker and quicker, at which point he better have made it to a toilet, sink or something else hollow, because his stomach would lurch and he would throw up. Afterwards, he would be shaking and sobbing, fearing that any minute Abel would walk around the corner and take him. Curled in on himself, he would wait it out, until the tears dried on his cheeks and his body ached, at which point he would get up, wash his face, take a deep breath and try to get on with his day. 

No, Frederick Chilton knew that he would be spending the rest of his life alone. Some nights, it drove him to the point where he started thinking " _why am I fighting so hard to stay alive and sane, what is the point?_ ". Most nights, he was too drunk to care. 

**Author's Note:**

> So I said I was probably only going to write smut, but here we are. What a dirty liar I am, huh? As before, I crave feedback like an addict, addicted to... feedback


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